lógica

After comida, I go to my room and start digging up the fear I know is somewhere under all this anger at Juan, at Antonio. Being pissed off is my usual defense, but if I don't want to be miserable for the next two weeks, I've got to work this out. I'm new, I'm vulnerable, I feel stupid when I'm being corrected all the time--this is what's really going on. I talk to Rebecca and she says, "You've got to look at Antonio as a blessing. If there was some American living there, you'd just speak English all the time."
But how to deal with him insulting me to my face? Well, I rationalize--who isn't a dick at age 24? When I was twenty, a friend and I were given a generous ride-board car-ride from Portland to Seattle, and we showed our frumpy 40-something driver our appreciation by mocking her musical taste for two hours straight. We all suck sometimes. And a world without dicky 24-year-olds would be a gray cold place with no punk rock and no skateboard tricks.
Maybe Juan is actually right, I decide. Maybe I am the one who isn't talking enough to Antonio. I had somehow decided that having him around was going to ruin my whole Mexico experience. I had decided that a kid young enough to be my son was my nemesis. Yeah--I'm kind of ridiculous when I'm scared.
And how to deal with Juan himself? I decide use the tactic I use when dealing with petty, competitive, or snotty writers in the literary community. I just say fuck 'em and focus on putting the right words down as well as I can and as much as I can. Juan wants me to speak more Spanish? Then I will speak more Spanish. Isn't that why I am here? I'll interrupt, I'll over-talk, I'll over-share. I'll put the Spanish first. Watch out, Oaxaca, here I come.